


The Storm

by everythinginbetween



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Badass!Malik, Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, malik angsts about his arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1507805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythinginbetween/pseuds/everythinginbetween
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik stood high over Jerusalem as the rain began to hammer down around him and he thought about jumping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in a good long while. I kind of lost my confidence but I love Malik's character and when the idea came I knew had to write it. Enjoy :)
> 
> Lightly edited to improve the quality slightly.

Malik liked the rain.

He liked the smell that lingered in the air hours before, the scent of nature cutting through the thick mask of incense and sweat to reclaim the land. He liked the ferocity of the gale that ripped through the buildings and swept his body back to a time when he had been able to transcend the forces of nature, his limbs transforming him into a shadow, up beyond the reach of the city to the home of untamed wilderness, of stars and sunlight, of eagles. Rain was a memory, but more than that…rain was an opportunity.

Everything paused before a storm. The whole city sensed a change on the wind, abandoned their evening activities in favour of shelter, and Jerusalem fell silent. Normally Malik wouldn't risk venturing too far out of the Bureau, not while his strength and speed had diminished but the number of enemies seeking his blood had not. Tonight, though, the streets were lonely without the usual bustle of everyday life and most of the guards had sought shelter in buildings and under ledges, freeing the rooftops.

So Malik climbed. Higher and higher, his one hand barely catching the tiny almost invisible notches, he ascended one of the tallest buildings in Jerusalem. The danger of falling each time he slipped a little, knowing he had no other hand to catch himself, made his heart race with the thrill of danger. To feel the pounding blood just under the surface of his skin, his breath sharp in his lungs, the painful scrape of sandstone on his bare palm, the warm frenzied wind…it was worth the risk.

At last he reached the flat roof of the guardhouse. The two archers barely had time to notice him leaping over the wall, swift and deadly, before his knives found their throats. Their eyes widened as they wasted their last few seconds on shock and then they crumpled. Blood blossomed under their bodies and crept into cracks in the stonework. He would regret that. He should. They didn't deserve to die just to feed the storm building inside of him, that was the kind of impulsive irresponsibility he expected from Altaïr. He turned his back on them.

Stepping up onto the stone ledge, he turned his gaze to the sky.

Heavy purple clouds loomed over him as he stood with his body slack and his palm upon, a reckless smile crooking the corner of his mouth. What use was there for arrows and blades when the heavens could strike him down in a meaningless instant? He tilted his head back a little further, almost hoping. The air was thick with silence as the storm's energy built, coiling tighter and tighter, until the wind thickened and the hairs rose on his neck. Then the first drop fell.

Malik closed his eyes.

The fast heaving of his chest calmed as the air began to cool around him and the rain fell in heavy, slow, drops against his face. The rush of adrenaline from the climb began to fade and he realised he was shaking. He opened he eyes and looked down, the ground barely visible in the dark. His training had long since rid him of any fear of heights he may have had but, still... it was a long way down. The rain fell faster and his breath caught as he looked at his single, shaking hand. He felt a flush of pain and humiliation heat up his face as he shivered slightly.

It would be so intoxicatingly easy to cast himself over the edge and fall with the rain. He didn't fear death. Does death even have any power over an existence without life?

A tightening in his throat and the burn of tears caught him by surprise and he rubbed angrily at his face, the rain trickling back into his eyes the moment his hand dropped to his side again. He hadn't cried yet. Not properly. Nor would he. The first maps he'd drawn in Jerusalem were stained in places and careful blotting couldn't quite mask the shadow of the spilled ink, nor could he completely hide the blurred circles from the quickly stifled tears that had followed. He'd thrown them into the fire.

Each passing hour he felt as though he was being pushed a little closer to the limit of what he could take. Every time he watched a novice's eyes drift towards his stump of an arm with that look it burned just a little more. Every time the shadow of who he had been rose to meet the day before his body caught up reminded him of the vacuum of space where his life's potential no longer existed…he... he... his breathing was becoming hysterical.

The storm was picking up pace.

He stood, face naked, arms turned upwards, and tried to control his breathing. The rhythmic sheets of rain battered his skin and the cold soaked through his clothes until his body went numb and the shaking stopped, giving himself entirely over to the storm. His heartbeat mingled with the pounding rain. The water poured down his face and dripped from his chin.

Every piece of him was dripping away like blood. The grief, the humiliation, the anger…all gone, his identity washed away in the wind, and he barely noticed that he was sobbing.

As the first roll of thunder followed a distant flash of lightning and he opened his eyes, taking a last lingering look over the rooftops of Jerusalem.

He stepped down from the ledge, suddenly calm, and went to retrieve his knives from the limp bodies. He stared down at them, imagining how it would feel to join them, and he felt nothing. He had to stop this, this game of imagining that he had the freedom to die.

As he reached down with his good arm to wrench the knife from the guard's limp flesh, he realised the strength still left in his fingers and a surge of anger and frustration followed. He looked again at the bodies in front of him and then at his own body, newly disfigured but still strong, and he thought of the missions waiting for him at his desk. He wiped the knives carefully on his robes and leapt back up onto the ledge.

He looked down from the watchtower and spotted a pile of hay at the bottom. It would be soaked through by now but it was fairly large, maybe it would suffice. He smiled again at the danger. Maybe.

He jumped.


End file.
